“Pumpkin seeds.” I looked down at them. I could add apple seeds to them, from our dinner. “They’re for planting, not eating. And there’s only four.”

“Where did you get them?”

“At the flea market.”

“Were they expensive? As much as the apples? Wil?”

I didn’t even know. I dug in my pocket for Pumpkin King’s note. He had written his IOU on a torn bit of grocery bag. I unfolded it to see there was a phone number. And one word.

It was not what I expected.

It was not weed. It was worse.

Grayson looked over my shoulder. He read it. “Lights?”

I crumpled the IOU.

My flashlight swung wildly in my hand, casting trees and bush and bits of the old barbed wire fence that lined parts of the driveway into sudden, stuttering light. The driveway was pitted and uphill. In mud season, when the creek had flooded, parts of the driveway would be washed away unless we dug out drainage ditches.

When I saw the slope of the farmhouse roof appear on the hill above me, I felt dread, more than the usual anxiety I had about the house. I could sense the darkness of the basement room. The logs from my last wood-chopping afternoon were scattered around the yard like bones. Grayson stopped behind me, his hands on his sides, trying not to pant.

“I forgot about your foot,” I said. I had dragged us up here without even thinking about him. “Are you all right?”

He looked at the boot, shifting his leg in the darkness. He didn’t answer me about it. “Are you going to tell me what that IOU meant? What does lights mean? What lights?”

I opened the farmhouse door. The house smelled dusty, stale, with an undercurrent of ash. It was also cold. I shuffled past the dark, extinguished stove, not looking closely at anything—not the empty coat tree, not the mirror on the wall, which showed my face.

I had grown to love this house, in a way. I had wanted to be here, with my mama. I had grown to love the remoteness and wildness of the farm. I was forbidden to bring friends to this house, not to the big house, and never around harvest. This would have been a busier time of year—fall—a dangerous time, in a world where spring had come, in a world where there had been enough light and heat to make a harvest.

I walked straight to the wall under the stairs. I opened the small basement door. “Come on,” I told Grayson. “Downstairs.” We ducked our heads, and he followed me. I heard the dull clunk of his cast striking the wall. “Be careful.”